Time For War
by loveiosa
Summary: War was never pretty. It tore apart brothers, damaged lovers, and gave wounds that nothing would heal. These are the stories... recorded in time as a warning to all.
1. Chapter 1: Revolution

**Bleeding Out**

 _Pairing: Alfred F. Jones/Arthur Kirkland (America/England)_

Summary: _Arthur wanted to leave, not just the battlefield, but the war, this uncivilized mass of trees and dirt sitting in the Pacific._

 _Revolution AU one-shot_

 _Word Count: 1,078_

 **A/N: Review if you want me to add other paring one-shots.**

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Arthur charged forward, bayonet pointed forward, eyebrows furrowed in a harsh concentration.

This was his fourth battle, and he'd already buried a quarter of his regiment.

Almost one hundred thirty-eight men.

One hundred thirty-eight out of five hundred fifty.

The sounds of metal against metal and the pained screams of dying men and the smell of blood and smoke and death filled his senses.

 _'For Britannia!'_ It was a mockery of respect, of hope, of loyalty.

These small rebellions had no affect on England in the long run, they'd survive, and this goddamned war was costing millions to keep fighting.

It was like sending a lion to eat a dog's leftovers.

He knelt down behind an unidentifiable body, almost retching at the odor of rotting flesh. Arthur hurriedly reloaded his musket, looking around him at the ongoing carnage.

He wondered, briefly, if in another life, _he_ would be the unidentifiable body, and this man would be loading a gun behind him.

The blond stood, breathing heavily and rushing through the smoke, swinging at the rebellious army.

Arthur grunted as he stabbed another man, blood coating the knife at the tip of his gun. He wasn't going to waste his bullets, stock was hard to come by in America, seeing as England was approximately five thousand miles away.

Five thousand long, dreary, godforsaken miles away.

"Hey! Red-coat bastard!"

Arthur looked up, wrenching his bayonet free from a man's spinal column with a sickening snap. A tall, blond, and enraged colonist stood in the smoke, hands gripping the gun, face and clothes dirty with grime.

Untrained.

Unsynchronised.

Brave.

Bold.

The boy ran forward, explosions and shaking the earth and dust flying, he slashed at Arthur, movements unfocused and untrained.

Arthur parried, grimacing as another blast sounded near them. The boy yelled, stabbing at Arthur's abdomen, narrowly missing his mark.

"Goddamn Brits! Just leave!" The dirty boy jumped back, gritting his teeth.

 _'Too many emotions.'_ Arthur jabbed at the boy's legs, leaving his flank open to attack.

No need to guard. There was not thought put into this boy's technique.

Arthur caught a glance at a paper wrapped around the makeshift boots the boy wore, _'Alfred Fitzgerald Jones.'_

So nice, the name, _Alfred_.

So... foreign.

The boy, it seemed was prepared to die, and had a sort of name-tag latched onto his boot.

 _'Can't be more than 20, such a shame.'_ Arthur grunted as Alfred, the newly named boy, twisted on his feet, knocking the side of his musket into the Red-coat.

The Briton groaned, falling to his knees, a still healing set of broken ribs were throbbing at the hit.

"Get up." Alfred stopped attacking, ignoring the death and destruction climaxing around them.

Arthur searched the blue-eyed gaze that glared down at him. "What are you waiting for? Kill me."

The blond shook his head, dirt caking his face, "No. That ain't got any dignity. Get up." Bullets flew past them, miraculously missing the pair, an _American_ flag flew in the cold wind, staff planted in the mud.

 _America_ , such impudence.

So stupid.

The colonies just didn't understand, King George was right, always was, always will be. And if the king said they would stay colonies, that's just what had to happen.

 _British_ colonies. Not American.

Didn't matter what the bastard _patriots_ had to say.

Arthur reached for his gun, stumbling to his feet as he narrowed his emerald eyes at the colonist. He wiped at his face, pushing back his sandy colored hair, "I have to kill you."

Kill.

 _Murder._

 _Execute._

 _Terminate._

 _Eliminate._

 _Annihilate._

 _Exterminate._

 _Slaughter._

 _Butcher._

 _Massacre._

So many words for one action.

No matter how you put it Arthur _hated_ that word and anything like it.

That ugly, horrifying, undignified, repulsive word.

Alfred readied his musket, free hand prepared to grab the hunter's knife that sat in a holster at his side.

"It's what we gotta do."

They were always killing.

They killed in lines, in piles, and in droves.

Endless blood and bodies.

A canon went off, sending a large metal ball shooting forward, shrapnel implanting itself into whatever was near.

"Surrender."

Alfred shook his head, bringing the musket to his face, closing a eye, "I'd kill myself before I did that."

Arthur wasn't religious. Never had been. But now, as he faced down a musket, ready and aimed, he remembered the verses his mother would read from her favorite bible.

 _'Ecclesiastes 3:8- A time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.'_

 _'Numbers 10:9- And when you go to war in your land against the adversary who oppresses you, then you shall sound an alarm with the trumpets, that you may be remembered before the Lord your God, and you shall be saved from your enemies.'_

 _'Exodus 20:13- You shall not murder.'_

 _'Acts 5:9- But Peter and the apostles answered, We must obey God rather than men.'_

Hypocrites. Always telling him and his brothers to fight in the name of the king. To believe whatever the hell those fools told him to do, as they sat on their asses and watched.

Alfred had his gun ready, and Arthur truly wanted him to fire.

A yell echoed through the battlefield, Arthur's general, calling for a retreat.

"If I go now, will you shoot?" Arthur wanted to leave, not just the battlefield, but the war, this uncivilized mass of trees and dirt sitting in the Pacific.

Alfred lowered his gun slightly, eyes wary, "Go. Now, or I'll kill you."

The pain, utter exhaustion, the filth.

Arthur moved backwards, staring at his enemy, only turning his back on Alfred as he saw the blue-eyed man do the same.

 _'I'll kill you next time, Alfred Fitzgerald Jones.'_

 _'This was your only break, Red-coat.'_

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 **A/N: I don't really like this one, I hope it's okay to ya'll. Read and review if you want me to add other one shots about other pairings.**


	2. Chapter 2: Religion

**Star-crossed Killers**

 _Pairing: Ludwig Beilschmidt/Feliciano Vargas (Germany/Italy)_

 _Summary: The victor will not be asked afterwards whether he told the truth or not. In starting and waging a war it is not right that matters, but victory. - Adolf Hitler_

 _World War II AU_

 _Word Count: 1,213_

 ** _A/N: I may use Adolf Hitler's quotes, but in no way do I condone his actions, this is a WW2 one-shot. Nothing in here is meant to be offensive._**

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 _'On this day, October 13, 1943; the nation of Italy declares war on it's former ally, Germany.'_

That was it.

He was alone.

 _Alone, alone, alone, alone, alonealonealonealone._

Static.

Japan had been incapacitated after the American sabotage and occupation of his major cities, and he'd done _nothing_. Left his friend and ally to waste away in a hospital.

Hungary. _Gone_.

Romania. _Gone_.

Bulgaria. _Gone_.

 _Tumbled down the goddamn rabbit hole._

He was tired, Ludwig couldn't do it anymore, couldn't support his crazy boss, couldn't accept the death toll and skyrocketing invasions that were happening in his home.

He just couldn't be _alone_.

It was as the great Mother Teresa said; _'The biggest disease known to mankind is loneliness.'_ And god, did he have it.

Infected.

Felt like he was coughing up crimson and foaming at the mouth, and the only cure was someone else's pain.

Someone else's time.

Ludwig held his head in trembling hands, white-blond hair cast in wisps across his face, clothes rumpled uncharacteristically. It was all going to hell, the economy, the alliances, the whole goddamned war.

Why did this happen now?

He was taught to _never_ be a burden.

Italy, no, _Feliciano_ , had left him, just packed his bags and gone. It wasn't the poor Italian's fault, Ludwig had forced him away, telling him that he'd be better off with the Allies, better off and alive.

Alive and living.

Not alive and surviving.

Two different things.

Ludwig groaned, running a clammy hand through his mussed hair, squeezed his eyes shut in concentrated thought. He couldn't hear his own thoughts, the goddamn static _screeching_ incessantly in his head.

"Stop."

" _Stop._ "

 _ **"STOP!"**_

Could the noise ever just leave him the hell alone? He didn't want this, didn't want his brother to turn on him, his allies to leave him, the other nations to refuse to stop and _listen_.

He'd met Italy on the battlefield the next day.

Ludwig had raised his gun, pointed it at Feliciano and almost pulled the trigger.

Almost.

Saddest word in the goddamn world, no matter the language.

 _Almost_ good enough.

 _Almost_ in love.

 _Almost_ made it.

Yet somehow in some beautiful, horrendous, amazing way, that one word could bring tears of joy to anyone's eyes.

 _Almost_ home.

 _Almost_ there.

 _Almost_ time to celebrate.

The blond had stood in the trench, uniform thrown on uncaringly, gun pointed, grenades and other weapons hanging off his side. It was too hard, he was gritting his teeth, hand and arm locked in position, but he couldn't bring himself to just. Fucking. Shoot.

Unorganized.

Unlike _him_.

"Oh Ludwig, I'm so sorry." It held pity, sadness, sympathy, compassion for the goddamn _devil_.

That's what he was. Devil.

Demon.

Lucifer.

Abaddon.

Apollyon.

Satan.

 _Destruction personified._

"NO!" He'd yelled, infuriated and maddened, "Feliciano, no! Just no! You can't have sympathy for me! I'm the enemy."

Feliciano had walked forward, everything had fallen away, the war, their nationhood, the millions of lives that depended on them.

Everything.

"God, Ludwig, I'm sorry I left you, sorry I wasn't here." Feliciano -Northern Italy- had suddenly wrapped his arms around Ludwig, placing his head onto his chest.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry."

He kept on repeating it, a mantra, wouldn't stop.

Guns had dropped, bombs had stopped falling, and god, oh, god, the everlasting pain just washed away.

Why did humans feel the need to kill each other? They all believed in the same thing, merely said different ways. The Christians that he fought so valiantly for believed in Christ, so did the Jews he was blatantly murdering. They all believed in God.

Funny man, God.

So funny.

 _'Psalm 29:11- The Lord gives strength to his people; the Lord blesses his people with peace.'_

But then again...

 _'Exodus 15:3- The Lord is a warrior; The Lord is His name.'_

He was also wrathful, no?

What about those insipid Jews?

Did they feel the same?

It mattered not, they were all burning in the gas chambers.

Because of his actions.

Laughter. The static was back, screaming in his mind, whispering, reminding him of all his crimes, all the lives he'd ended. Dancing in his head, circling the fire that was his mind, spitting flames right back at it.

 _"I'm sorry."_

 _"I'm sorry."_

 _"I'm sorry."_

Who was saying it now?

Him, or Feliciano?

Feliciano was beautiful. So amazing with his golden eyes and golden hair and golden skin. Golden boy. Like a ray of light in his dreary darkness.

Cliché, he knew.

Feliciano was the single rose blossom on the winding vines that tangled with others to create Ludwig's life.

He'd shot a golden boy once. Took his Luger P08 pistol and blew the boy's brains out. In the middle of a town square, the boy had glared at him with his golden eyes, flecked with azure and viridescent hazel. Ludwig had grabbed him by the golden threads of his hair and forced him down to his knees, staining his golden skin with red.

 _Boom._

All done.

"Ludwig, I'm here. This can stop, it's not too late, we can go and I'll take you to surrender and we'll be happy." Feliciano was hugging him. Holding on for dear life it seemed.

Almost. That word, something about it bugged Ludwig. _Almost_. All- the first part of that cursed word- meant everything, did it not? But, you still have the _'-most'_ part weighing you down. Most, that could only be defined as a lot, but not everything, enough, but not complete.

A double negative.

Canceled each other out.

False positive.

Nullified.

Counterpoised.

Ludwig was shot back into reality, back to the battlefield, back to _life_ , when a goddamn bomb exploded near them.

Probably an Azon. Maybe a VB-6 Felix.

Sad how he could tell from simply from the mass of an explosion.

Didn't thrown them back though.

God _was_ funny.

 _'We'll be happy.'_

What was Feliciano thinking?

He didn't deserve happy, no.

 _'Proverbs 14:13- Laughter can conceal a heavy heart, but when the laughter ends, the grief remains.'_

One thing is higher than royalty, than love, than life itself; and that, my dear men, is religion. Religion causes war, and grief and death, but also instills the ever glowing light of hope inside the hearts of the lost. Have religion, have _faith_ , and you shall prosper.

Well, it seems Ludwig wouldn't prosper.

Not today.

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 **A/N: I didn't know where to end this so I kinda left it incomplete :( oopsy. I'll come back to this and finish this chapter later.**


	3. Chapter 3: Betrayal

**Set Me Loose**

 _Pairing: Holy Roman Empire/Northern Italy_

 _Summary: 'When the Jews return to Zion, and a comet fills the sky, and the Holy Roman Empire rises, then you and I must die. From the eternal sea he climbs, creating armies on either shore, turning man against his brother, till man exists no more.' - Damien, Iced Earth_

 _Word Count: 2,146_

 _A/N: I got some Chibitalia feels after reading a HRE/Chibitalia fan-fiction. I needed to write one and since I haven't updated 'Time For War' in a long while, I'm posting this on it. I changed this goodbye scene a little, partly to keep the flow and emotion, and partly because I see HRE as a boy who would show polite affection (hand kiss, hand shake etc.) but not someone who would full on smooch the hell out of you, unless he really loved you. _

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A kiss was the act of perfecting a union, of making everything you've ever wanted real. It could be sloppy, hands intertwined, eyes closed, tongues moving in unsynchronized fervor. It could be soft, a sweet reminder, a small promise. But the kisses Feliciano found himself giving the most were the sorrowful ones, highlighted by the salty tears, face being cupped in a last ditch effort to keep the other person close.

The ones you cry for in movies.

He never thought he would be saying goodbye. Not to him. Holy Rome was supposed to stay, to live, to smile and blush and simply _exist._

The Holy Roman Empire, or Holy Rome (as Feliciano called him) was not Holy, nor Roman nor an Empire. He was a boy.

Charming, kind, clumsy.

Brave, determined, strong.

Nonetheless, he was still a boy. Not a war machine.

Feliciano, in his layered dress, stood at the large iron cast gates in front of Holy Rome's garden. He called out, arm shooting forward to try and grasp the nation he had grown up with.

"Holy Rome!"

Tears pricked at his eyes, face contorted into an expression of pain. He called again, this time stumbling down the sand crunching beneath his heeled shoes. Feliciano grabbed the dress, lifting it above his ankles so he could run faster.

"Holy Rome, wait!"

The taller boy turned, bewilderment clear on his features, the blond raised his head, pushing his hat back to rest squarely on his hair, "Italia?" Holy Rome frowned, brow lowering, before he dismissed his subordinates with a wave. "Sir?" They questioned, one holding a map, the others moving their stares away from the battle plans. "Go, I want to speak to Italia." The empire watched as Feliciano ran to him, and a small smile came to his mouth. He walked, meeting the latin nation halfway, almost falling backwards as the russet haired boy swung his arms around his robed body, head pressed into Holy Rome's chest.

"Tell me it's not true." Feliciano looked up, arms still gripping the broader boy in a crushing embrace. Holy Rome pulled away slightly, hands resting on the upper sleeves of the olive dress. "Oh, Italia, I'm sorry." He shook his head, dropping his arms back to his sides. Feliciano gasped, hazel eyes widening.

No. _No no no no._

"No! Holy Rome, you can't go! _Promettimi! Promettimi che non lascerai!"_ The Italian trembled, hands grabbing at the black clothing swaying in front of him, streams of tears etching their way down his tanned face.

"I can't do that Italia, not today." Holy Rome smiled bitterly, closing his azure eyes as if to block out the image of Feliciano's tears. He looked behind him, at the soldiers and wagons full of supplies that lined up just outside of his home, awaiting his orders.

Feliciano gulped, swallowing back the fresh tears that threatened to spill. He panted, opening his mouth to say something and then closing it, blinking as he sniffled. "You are going to fight big brother Francis, right?"

The blond nation nodded solemnly, _"Si,"_ He said, his Italian accent poking through his dialect, "the French leader, Napoleon, is trying to break up my lands, I cannot let that happen."

The smaller boy blinked, letting out a shuddering breath, clearing his throat, "I know, Holy Rome." The troops were restless now, their grumbles and doubts reaching the pair's ears.

 _'He won't leave her.'_

 _'Che, the poor boy is probably half-ready to desert.'_

 _'How are we going to win against that French army?'_

Deep inside Holy Rome's mind, something hissed back at him, confirming his army's whispers.

 _'You can't leave her.'_

 _'Stay with Italia, run away and live your lives.'_

 _'We can't win, you know that.'_

He couldn't. He had pride. Honor, loyalty, fidelity, and his ever-constant need for glory.

 _'If you won't go, then make her part of your empire. She could be happy by your side.'_

"Italia?" He raised his chin, moving a hand to fix his collar. It was a big thing to ask of a nation, to join an empire.

 _His_ empire.

"What is it, Holy Rome?" Feliciano shifted, worried for the blond and his now rowdy troops.

Holy Rome frowned, clasping his hands behind his back, "Will you join my empire, Italia?" A smile graced his features, small and polite, "together we can be the Roman Empire!" His sapphire eyes held such passion, fiery and bold, and it seemed like all the toils of the oncoming battle had fallen away.

Feliciano gasped, taking a small step back, heeled boots crunching the ground beneath them. What? Join his empire? But his Grandpa, his cherished _nonno,_ had told him to never become an empire, or part of one, for it would be his downfall.

And then _nonno_ had left.

And it had been Holy Rome's own _nonno_ to land the final blow.

"I..." He stuttered, fear and concern and foolish, selfish cowardice raced through him, "I can't Holy Rome, I won't." Feliciano- _Italia_ -was too afraid to do anything, to become anything more than what he was.

Too afraid to be with Holy Rome.

Because Feliciano had seen enough tyranny and backstabbing already to end the most powerful of men. His grandfather, Ancient Rome, had woven stories and tales surrounded by the mist of lessons. The lessons of trust and when not to give it.

Julius and Marcus.

Marc Antony and Cleopatra.

Hercules and Megara.

Jupiter and Juno.

Saturn and Ops.

"But why?" Holy Rome was struggling to keep his temper down, to refrain from yelling at the girl he loved. The regally clothed boy grabbed Feliciano's upper arm, the olive green dress fluttering under the white apron on top of it.

Feliciano pulled back, wrenching his thin arm from the taller nation's hand, "Because, Holy Rome, nothing good can come from this," he waved a petite hand toward the legions that waited for the German empire. "War doesn't make things better," he was crying again, "it only makes things worse."

Holy Rome huffed, mouth gaped open slightly at the Italian, before he nodded once more, hands falling back to his sides. "I see." He began to leave, black cape swinging behind him, when Feliciano cried out.

"Wait!"

He grunted, surprised that the Latin nation still wanted to speak to him, "What is it, Italia?" He was facing the smaller boy again, brow lowered in concern.

"Please. Don't go yet. I need to give you something to remember me by."

Holy Rome smiled at Feliciano, lifting one of his tanned hands to plant a soft kiss on it. "There is no need, Italia, I will always remember you."

The bandana covering Feliciano's head loosened in the wind, pushing back to expose a part of his normally covered hair. He looked back up at the blond, an idea coming to his mind. Feliciano pulled the white cloth the rest of the way off, folding it neatly and handing it to Holy Rome, a wistful look on his face.

"Here," He offered the folded wrap, "I know you'll remember me, Holy Rome, but just to be sure."

Holy Rome took the bandana, tilting his head, though his cap managed to stay perfectly aligned. "Italia?" He tapped his chin in thought, "What do the people in your country give to someone they love?"

Feliciano hummed, nose scrunching up as he fished for an answer, the army was getting even more rowdy now, the anticipation and adrenaline of the oncoming battle spiking their anxiety levels.

"A kiss."

Holy Rome's cheeks lit up red, ears heating up to accompany them, and he blinked in shock, cerulean blue irises contrasting beautifully.

"A kiss?"

The peninsula looked at his shifting feet, fingers joined behind his back, russet curl bouncing. "Yep. A kiss on the mouth."

The empire glanced away, taking a deep breath, "Okay." He leaned forward, cupping the smaller boy's face in his hands, pressing his lips to the other's quickly.

It was chaste and brisk, but still enjoyed by both parties.

"Sir!" A general ran up to the pair, interrupting them, "Sir, we need to move _now_ , the French are almost at our border." Holy Rome nodded swiftly at the man, letting go of Feliciano's hand, walking steadily to his horse.

"Remember, Italia! No matter how many years pass you will always be my favorite out of anyone in this world!" He waved, smiling for the last time before riding ahead of his now moving troops, already shouting orders.

Feliciano stood at the large iron gate, watching as it closed, sheilding him away from Holy Rome. He let a tear trail down his face, and turned back to the grand home that waited for him.

Always the good servant, Feliciano performed his duties, waiting for Holy Rome to come back, not noticing the cracks that now edged across the foundation or the weeds that outgrew the once colorful gardens. The boy had washed the dishes and swept the rooms, folded the clothes with Elizabeta and helped Roderich clean out the brass organ pipes.

He waited, first a week, then a month, before news reached the formerly magnificent manor.

The adult nations snatched the letter from the postman, both eagerly tearing at the envelope sealed in red wax, and Feliciano watched, craning his neck to hear anything that could tell him where Holy Rome was.

At first he was confused, Elizabeta's back was towards him, and he could not see if she was laughing or crying when her shoulders started to shake.

Then, the one woman he'd never seen or heard cry, began to sob loudly. Roderich wrapped his arms around Elizabeta, rocking her back and forth, dropping the letter from his long fingers. His glasses fogged a little, violet eyes brimming with quiet tears.

"Shh," he crooned, rubbing one of his hands up and down he back, "it's okay. We couldn't stop it. Death finds us all."

She only sobbed louder.

And then Feliciano understood.

Holy Rome was gone.

Gone as in dead.

Dead as in never coming back unless someone colonized his lands again.

And where was the chance in that happening anytime soon?

The day Elizabeta and Roderich left the mansion was one of the worst days of Feliciano's life. They took him along, dropping him off at Antoino's house.

He'd never seen his brother happier.

He'd never been more heartbroken.

He looked at the old oil painting of the odd family, Elizabeta and Roderich on either side of Holy Rome and Feliciano, all smiling happily.

Feliciano wondered then, every night afterwards, was Holy Rome with their _nonni?_

* * *

 _A/N: Slaughter me for this. *Is a really buff history and mythology nerd*_

 _ **Translations/Explanations:**_

 **Promettimi! Promettimi che non lascerai!-** _Promise me! Promise me you won't leave me!_

 **Nonno-** _Grandfather_

 **Nonni-** _Grandfathers_

Julius Caesar was stabbed in the back (literally) by his best friend Marcus Brutus.

Marc Antony and Cleopatra were lovers, Marc thought Cleo was dead, so he stabbed himself, not dying until after it was revealed she was alive. Once Cleo found out that he died on his way to see her, she pricked herself with a poisoned hairpin (not a snake) This was tragically similar to Romeo and Juliet.

Hercules was driven insane by Hera, and in affect he blindly killed his wife, Megara, and children.

Jupiter is the Roman name of Zeus and Juno is the Roman Hera.

Saturn is the Roman version of Kronos (Zeus' father) Ops (or Cybele) is the Roman Rhea, who was Zeus' mother.

The Holy Roman Empire was dissolved by the French on August 6th 1806.

Italy is 155 years old this year. HRE would've been 1,054. It took 909 years for Germany to form from HRE's lands.


End file.
